How to Recreate Howard Hughes' Legendary Movie Screening Room

Share

Long before Zuck, Bezos, and the rest of the nouveau riche oligarchs made their dot-com fortunes, there was only one tech billionaire: Howard Hughes. In fact, for quite a while, he was the world's only billionaire, and proud of it, too. "I'm not a paranoid, deranged millionaire," he once proclaimed, as if fact-checking one of his many press clippings. "Goddammit, I'm a billionaire."

How did this college dropout amass such great wealth? By being a swashbuckling business tycoon: Hughes filed numerous patents, speculated in real estate, launched an oil industry monopoly, built an aircraft and aerospace empire, and won military contracts. He was also a record-setting aviator and a Washington insider.

Not to mention a brilliant engineer. At age 11, when his classmates were reading comic books and trading baseball cards, Hughes built Houston's first radio transmitter. A year later, he cobbled together a motorized bike from salvaged steam engine parts. And, while he's best known as the designer of the infamous "Spruce Goose," he also invented two of the most useful items of the 20h century: the electric hospital bed, and the push-up bra.

Of all these accomplishments, though, the thing that Howard Hughes enjoyed more than anything else was movies. In the 1930s, he produced landmark films like Hell's Angels, The Front Page, and Scarface. Later, after securing a controlling interest in RKO Pictures, he embarked on even more film projects including The Outlaw, a scandalous picture that pushed the boundaries of on-screen censorship and made Jane Russell a sex symbol.

Hughes didn't just enjoy making movies. He enjoyed watching them. A lot. He kept a private screening room at Hollywood's Samuel Goldwyn Studios through the 1950s. During one marathon session that would put today's Netflix bingers to shame, he camped out in that darkened room on Santa Monica Blvd. for more than four months—without leaving. Sprawled in a chair, often nude, he remained transfixed for days at a time, sipping milk and nibbling chocolate bars. He didn't even take bathroom breaks between reels. Instead, like an asylum inmate, he relieved himself in glass bottles and containers. When he finally emerged from that cinematic cocoon in the spring of 1948, he looked gaunt, pale, and withered, a harbinger of the tabloid train wreck yet to come.

The Man in the High Casino

By 1968 Hughes had become the ghoulish recluse that history would remember. He was only 63, but looked thirty years older. Emaciated, with freakishly long hair and nails, the wheelchair-bound eccentric moved from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, where he rented the top two floors of the Desert Inn for his residence and business headquarters. For entertainment, and to distract from the chronic pain that racked his body (the result of a 1946 plane crash), he continued to watch films around the clock in his penthouse suite.

Dissatisfied with the movie selections on KLAS-TV, the local CBS affiliate, the former studio head purchased the station so that he could dictate the programming schedule. "We knew when Hughes was in town," wrote Paul Anka in his 2013 autobiography My Way. "You'd get back to your room, turn on the TV at 2 A.M., and the movie Ice Station Zebra would be playing. At 5am, it would start all over again. It was on almost every night. Hughes loved that movie." Owning KLAS had its perks. If Hughes wanted to replay a scene, he simply called the station and ordered a studio technician to rewind the footage.

But watching movies on a small box soon became a frustrating experience. Since age 14, when he took his first flying lesson, Hughes had been exposed to the piercing drone of airplane engines. Now, decades later, his hearing was shot. Even with the volume blaring, the tinny sound of the small TV speakers wasn't loud enough for Hughes to decipher the dialogue. According to ex-girlfriend Katherine Hepburn, this physical disability dated back as early as the 1930s. "Howard Hughes was a curious fellow," the actress wrote in her memoir Me. "He had a really fine mind, but he was deaf—quite seriously deaf."

Hughes didn't just enjoy making movies. He enjoyed watching them.

Refusing to settle for silent movies, Hughes did what he always did when confronted with a problem: he designed his way out of it. As the former president of RKO Pictures, he owned an extensive library of feature length movies in the form of 16mm reduction prints. What he needed now was a projection system capable of pumping out some high dBs. Having already purchased the Desert Inn, Hughes didn't have to worry about noise complaints. The idea was to crank the soundtrack so loud that even he could hear it.

According to the salesman who sold Hughes the stereo equipment for this early home theater system, the project was a success. "The volume level on Hughes' power amp actually made the floor vibrate," says Roger Tolces, "Those speakers generated such powerful sound waves that they shook the chandeliers on the 8th floor. When the employees complained, the room directly below Hughes' was permanently vacated."

Also, it was a mono system. Until the mid-'70s and the introduction of Dolby Optical Stereo Sound, most movies were projected with a mono soundtrack. Star Wars and Close Encounters (both '77 releases) were the first two blockbusters to capitalize on this new optical 35mm release print format. Not that Howard would have noticed anyway. Although his system flirts with the audiophile realm, it was really about blasting the living bejesus out of those horn speakers.

Heavy rotation titles included The Sting, The Clansman, The High Commissioner, and the first five Bond films. Hughes was also partial to westerns. Especially The Outlaw, his directorial tour de force. Ice Station Zebra, however, was Hughes' favorite distraction. Which isn't surprising. As a germ phobic and fervent anti-communist, with an interest in high-tech machinery, Ice Station Zebra was ideal escapist fare for Hughes. The plot involves a American Naval hero (Rock Hudson), a Cold War Soviet villain (Ernest Borgnine), lots of military hardware (helicopters, subs), and takes place primarily in one location: the Arctic Circle, a pollen-, bacteria-, virus-, FBI-, and paparazzi-free zone.

In the billionaire's final months, aids reported that the turgid action-adventure film ran through the projector over 150 times in an endless loop. "Ice Station Zebra will probably remain indelibly imprinted on the minds of his entourage for the rest of their lives," wrote James Phelan in Howard Hughes: The Hidden Years.

Dream Theater

Whether you're a billionaire aviator or just a 16mm buff, you can recreate Hughes's historic AV rig using a mix of modern and vintage gear. It's loud—a detached house is recommended. We've consulted with Roger Tolces, the man who helped Hughes source his epic sound system for the Desert Inn hotel suite, and put together a simple punch list.

The former electronics salesman now runs a "TSCM business" in Southern California. For everyone who isn't Edward Snowden, that's Technical Surveillance Counter Measures—otherwise known as bug sweeping. He's been doing this for 30 years now, and business has never been better. "We're living in dark times," he says gravely. "Since the Patriot act, our Constitutional rights have been trampled. You have to protect yourself." He recommends a quarterly sweep to keep spooks and snoops at bay. Think about that. The guy who sold this crazy movie projection system to the world's richest man is now a professional bug sweeper. Somewhere, Howard Hughes is smiling.

Graflex 16 Movie Projector (Model 100). Bell & Howell projectors were more expensive, but they weren't nearly as reliable or dummy-proof as a Graflex. Made by Singer, the company known for it's bulletproof sewing machines, the Graflex 16 was the default projector for public schools, government agencies and the military. It has exceptional build quality, doesn't chew up film, and the spring belts are easy to replace. It's also a breeze to load, even in the dark. Many of these machines are still in service. Buy one ($375 or so) before the guys in Bushwick corner the market.

Altec Valencia Speakers (Model 846A). Audio trivia: the Altec A7 was the only speaker approved by the Research Council of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, making it the global standard for movie theaters. How loud were these things? They were on stage when Hendrix played Woodstock in '69. Part of Altec's "Voice of the Theater" residential line, the Valencia was a scaled down version of the iconic A7. Less than half the size of its big brother, these 100 lb. cubes will still dwarf your living room ottoman. Although Valencias were used in many recording studios in the 60s and 70s, they don't sound particularly refined or accurate. This is basically an audiophile P.A. system shoehorned into a walnut cabinet. Try Oak Tree Enterprises. A set will cost you about $2,500.

McIntosh MC2505 Power Amplifier. McIntosh amps had such a reputation for quality and durability that they were specified for sonar systems on U.S. Navy submarines. In fact, at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory, the DOE emergency PA and sirens are still powered by Macs. Introduced in 1968, the MC2505 was the debut of what would become the signature McIntosh look: black glass front panel, brushed aluminum knobs, and those sexy blue output meters. Conservatively rated at 50wpc, these amps routinely bench-tested closer to 75. More than enough power to make those efficient Altec horns scream late into the desert night. $1,500 and up at Audio Classics.

Pyramid 14-guage Zip Wire. The hi-fi scam known as audiophile cables didn't exist until Monster Cable began foisting them on gullible consumers in 1978. Roger Tolces laughs when asked if Hughes specified a special speaker cable. "No, I just used regular zip cord." That's the same stuff lamps are wired with: two strands of copper wire covered by a plastic sheath. Some audiophiles say their unobtanium python connects boost SQ. According to the scietific data, though, they would be hard-pressed to prove it in a double-blind experiment. Under $20 on Amazon.

Versitol Da-Lite Projection Screen (70 inches). Forget about white sheets. This isn't a frat house. This is the penthouse at the Desert Inn, and you're a billionaire, goddammit. So, live a little. Pass on the musty eBay offerings, and order a new cineaste-approved matte cloth Da-Lite ($110). It provides a sharper image than the old glass beaded screens, perfect for repeated viewings of Ice Station Zebra.

Blackout EZ Window Cover. The neon sign on the roof of the Silver Slipper casino pointed directly at the Desert Inn penthouse windows. Hughes found this sightline an annoyance. So, he did what any billionaire would do. He bought the Silver Slipper, and took down the sign. Hughes would later dispense with windows completely, blacking them out like a Londoner during the Blitz. This served two purposes: protection from government surveillance (and The National Enquirer), and making his Vegas lair the perfect pitch-black screening room. Try Blackout EZ covers (around $40).

16mm Feature Film Prints. Like every other obsolete media format, 16mm movies can be found in abundance on eBay. A recent search turned up 7,163 different films, many of them made during Howard Hughes' Hollywood heyday. Johnny Guitar, staring Joan Crawford, is a bargain at $29.95. The Last Angry Man, featuring Paul Muni is also reasonably priced: $89. There's even a nice selection of RKO titles, including Adventures of a Rookie (1943), and the classic Of Human Bondage (1934). Disney's Cinderella resides at the high end: $295.95. If you can't find Ice Station Zebra, eBay usually has the next best thing: a Technicolor print of Avalanche, a "game of survival at a luxury ski resort," starring—no joke—Rock Hudson.

Howard Hughes had bad teeth. "Worst damn mouth I ever saw," said his personal physician, Dr. Wilbur Thain. "When they operated on his hip, the surgeons were afraid his teeth were so loose that one would fall into his lung and kill him!" That would explain the soft-serve diet he maintained during his final years. Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup was one favorite.

The other staple of Hughes's easy-to-eat diet? Baskin-Robbins ice cream. After ordering 350 gallons of banana-nut ice cream from the Baskin-Robbins factory in Los Angeles, Hughes quickly switched his allegiance to chocolate-marshmallow. Don't make the same mistake. Order 350 gallons of both.

Ball Vintage Collection Pint Jars. According to Murder Incorporated Meets Vegas Inc. (chapter 6, p. 79), "[Hughes] had become an emaciated physical wreck, who had taken to storing his expended urine in Mason jars he kept in a closet." Was this a manifestation of undiagnosed OCD or a hoarding issue regarding precious bodily fluids? Tread carefully. As the saying goes, if you do it, it's crazy. But if a rich guy does it, he's eccentric. A six pack is $20 on Amazon.